


An Errand Discharg'd, 1706

by ImpOfPerversity



Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-11
Updated: 2005-01-11
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity
Summary: This fic contains a MASSIVE spoiler for The System of the World, and features an OMC from my Nanowrimo effort -- so it's strongly contraindicted to anyone who hasn't read at least TSotW. --Gloria, 23.02.05





	An Errand Discharg'd, 1706

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains a MASSIVE spoiler for The System of the World, and features an OMC from my Nanowrimo effort -- so it's strongly contraindicted to anyone who hasn't read at least TSotW. --Gloria, 23.02.05

Daniel Wallis's bedmates, of late, have been of an exclusively feminine persuasion, and not prone to such stentorian snores as are emanating from the other occupant of the attic above the Red Cow. It doesn't help that a heavy arm has found its way, unremarked by either party, to lie across Daniel's waist in a caricature of affection. In short, thinks Daniel Wallis with a sigh, sleep is unlikely to transport him for some hours yet.

Above the bed, the beams creak with the added weight of rain-soaked thatch. There's a steady drip-drip-drip from the corner of the attic, where the hip of the roof lets in the weather. Daniel might be on board his ship again, if it weren't for the damned English weather. But this bed is remarkably snug and soft -- seems that his bedfellow has acquired a taste for comfort -- and there's another body beside him, warm and solid in a way that Daniel sometimes misses.

It's all that talk of buccaneering, of ocean-crossings and voyages from winter to summer, that's made him remember rougher pleasures. That, and the lingering melancholy (not that Daniel would ever admit to such a thing) from yesterday evening. "Gone away," the girl had told him when he'd gone up Houndsditch to find his Dol. "Gone with a gentleman, she has."

For sure the lass who'd told him so had been sweet enough, herself, and she'd made no secret of her readiness to step into Dol's shoes (or, ha, out of 'em, and out of every other garment she wore). But Daniel had been looking forward to seeing Dol again, and to find that she'd upped and left him ... well.

He'd bought a quart of spirits on his way back to the waterfront, and spent the night aboard his ship, though she was echoingly empty with most of the men whoring or drinking ashore. And then, today, his captain had beckoned Daniel over, and entrusted him with an errand, an important and most particular errand.

The package was rectangular, hard-edged and burdensome, and Daniel'd wondered what might be inside. But it was sealed with a fearsome array of waxen seals, faded scribbling and the like, and van Hoek had given him a cold-eyed look that warned him not to meddle, or even to ask. "Just take this to the Red Cow," he'd said, "and give it to the landlord -- none other -- and tell him it's for Jimmy's old Da. Do you have it?"

"Aye," Daniel'd said obligingly, and repeated back van Hoek's instructions to him.

Years of sailing under an assortment of eccentric, and downright dangerous, captains had taught Daniel Wallis the habit of discretion, and gifted him with a variety of expressions and behaviours designed to indicate an almost bovine lack of curiosity. Yet (Daniel stares up into the darkness of the rafters, grinning at the thought) he'd been hard-pressed not to exclaim when van Hoek handed over the package: for it had been extraordinarily heavy.

It'd been a chill, grey afternoon, and Daniel less familiar with the muddy streets of Wapping than he'd imagined. By the time he'd reached the Red Cow he'd been cold, wet and thoroughly out of temper. For tuppence he'd've hailed a waterman and gone aboard the _Minerva_ again: but no one on the street had looked as though they _possessed_ tuppence, never mind offering it to Daniel Wallis, and besides he had his captain's business to discharge.

He'd walked into the gloomy, smoky interior of the Red Cow -- shouldering his way past a gaggle of watermen, come in to shelter from the rain -- and found it just as he'd expected: low-ceilinged, full of tobacco- and coal-smoke and a fug of beery exhalations, busy with sailors and other ne'er-do-wells of all countries, colours and religious affiliation, and a few women of the looser sort plying their trade in a half-hearted way. There was a terrible screeching from one corner, but this proved to be a dark-visaged chap with a fiddle, rather than a cat being tormented. Peering into the recesses of the room, Daniel'd finally located a bar, and a brawny fellow behind it pouring mulled ale into a rather nice pewter tankard.

"Are you the landlord, sir?" Daniel had asked, laying half a crown on the bar as proof of his interest; and the man, after a long measuring look, allowed as how he might be.

"And this is the Red Cow, the only tavern by that name in Wapping?"

"Aye," said the landlord. "Not surprisin' you'd've heard of the place, sir: 'tis the very inn where an infamous murderer was apprehended by my own dear father and a couple of gentlemen come down from the Tower. Year of our Lord 1688, it was ..."

Daniel had let him drone on, though the tale -- some villainous official run to ground on the premises -- failed to engage his interest. It might be well, though, to have the landlord favourably disposed towards him, and so he nodded and made encouraging noises at every pause, and tried not to let his eyes fix upon the freshly-drawn pint, which steamed and foamed enticingly; or upon the lass at the nearest table, who was doing something similar.

"Now, guv'nor, I've a package to deliver to you," Daniel had said at last, after a decent round of compliments to the landlord's mettlesome forebear. "For Jimmy's old Da, they told me."

He'd heaved the bundle onto the surface of the bar, which had creaked alarmingly. The landlord's eyes had widened, perhaps at the sight of all that red wax; then, like a man afflicted with some spasmodic disease, he'd flicked a glance over towards the snug. Daniel, not moving his head, had surreptitiously squinted until he saw a fellow sitting on his own in a nook to the right of the chimney-breast, puffing on a pipe. Might _he_ be Jimmy's old Da, perhaps?

"Aye," the landlord'd said. "I'll see it reaches him. And won't you have a cup of our ale, sir? 'Tis on the house, in view of your kindness in bringing this here."

Daniel'd hesitated, but only for a moment: true, the _Minerva_ was warm and mostly dry, but it was a long time since he'd sat in a tavern on a cold winter's evening, supping good English ale -- none of that foreign muck that he'd forced down in so many exotic ports, some of it hardly even worthy of the name 'beer' -- and the rain was beating down so hard on the mud outside that he could hear it, even over the racket of a tableful of Lascars drinking, swearing and gaming.

Despite, or perhaps due to, its notoriety, the Red Cow was a popular resort, and Daniel had resigned himself to propping up the mantelpiece, letting the welcome heat of the fire steam him dry. But the bloke in the corner -- taking grateful delivery of his tankard of ale, and forbearing to remark on the delay in its arrival -- had beckoned him over.

"Sailor, eh, mate?"

"What makes you say so?" Daniel had said defensively.

"Well, you're walking around as though the floor's still rocking under you," the fellow had pointed out. "And your hands: you've worked hard with rope and spar, I'd say. But chiefly, and I'm sure it can't have escaped your attention, you've been in the _sun_ , a commodity highly prized in these latitudes for its rarity."

"Fair enough," Daniel had confessed, grinning. "A drink with you, sir? I'm Daniel Wallis."

"Daniel? That's a good name. One of my sons is named Daniel." As though this were sufficient introduction, the man had moved aside, making space for Daniel on the padded bench. He'd moved stiffly, as though recovering from some injury or illness: but Daniel, looking at him more closely, had diagnosed that old affliction, Age.

"What ship did you sail on, eh?"

"Many ships," Daniel'd said. "But lately, the _Minerva_."

The man -- his skin was pale as any Englishman's, though embellished with a fascinating array of scars, pocks, and sundry weathering -- nodded once, approvingly. "A fine ship," he'd said. "Pray sit, Mr Wallis, and tell me of your travels: for it's long since I sailed from these shores, and I've a hankering to hear of distant lands. Oh, I _do_ beg your pardon: Sean Partry, at your service."

Now, in the quiet hay-scented dark of the attic, Daniel tries to reconstruct Partry's appearance. Would he recognise Sean Partry on the street?

Partry's an old man, possibly even older than Daniel himself, and Daniel won't see forty again. You could see he'd been a fine-looking fellow in his youth: strong features, broad mouth, sea-green eyes that even now are undulled by age. His hair's a shade darker than Daniel's pale blond, and he still has it all, though it's streaked with grey. He'd been wearing gloves most of the evening, but Daniel had sneaked a look at his hands later, and they're lined and ridged and gnarled with use. Whatever life Sean Partry's led, he's lived it hard.

And 'twas clear from his tales that he'd sailed the seven seas for much of that life. Indeed, it was a wonder that the two of them had not met before: for Partry, so he asserted, had seen Manila -- "the Spanish cathedral with the mountains towering behind it, and a storm coming in; now, _there's_ a sight" -- and the Spice Islands; had lived for some time on, or near, the Malabar coast; he'd spoken feelingly of the perils of the Spanish Inquisition in Mexico, and he'd been to Port Royal, and Nassau, and all manner of places whose names evoked long-neglected memories in Daniel Wallis' nostalgic heart.

Daniel tells himself that it's those memories keeping him awake now, under the musty roof. His memories have entertained him through many a dull day, though he can't help but realise, amused, that they're not entirely to blame for his wakefulness tonight.

"Aye, all around the world," Partry had said, raising his cup in a toast. "For 'tis round indeed, though I hadn't the proof of it then. All around the world, Mr Wallis, and being a contrary sort, I went the _wrong way_."

"How'd you mean, sir?"

"Well, no captain in his right mind'd cross the Pacific from Manila to Mexico, eh?"

"I've heard it's a perilous crossing," Daniel had said cautiously. "My old captain wouldn't countenance the attempt."

"Ah, but we were after a great prize," Partry'd intimated. "A prize that'd let us set up as lords in any country you care to name -- though the majority of our company, for reasons having to do with local legislation and judgements in absentia, wished to settle as far from Europe as might be."

"Oh, I've been to just the place," Daniel'd said, laughing. "You've heard of that great southern land the Dutch talk of?"

"Aye, but thought it a mere traveller's tale."

"Well, I've been there," Daniel'd pronounced, beckoning for more ale for them both. "'Tis hot, and dry, and we were like to perish: but there are folk who live there, black as tar, and they find their sustenance from the land." He'd taken a long draught, mouth dry at the mere memory. "And the flies, dear Lord: the flies were _everywhere_."

"Flies?" Partry had shuddered. "One time when I was in Hindustan ..." His voice had trailed off, and Daniel had glanced across at him, to show he was still listening, and to glean more observations of the man.

For Partry was an enigma. 'Twas clear that he knew whereof he spoke, and that he'd sailed the world. Yet here he was, supping ale in a Wapping stew, in good clothes that Daniel would've hesitated to show off in such a dive. None of the other customers were taking any notice of him, though: nay, Daniel had realised after his second pint of ale, they were taking _no_ notice of him; 'twas a deliberate lack of interest, a manufactured nonchalance. Sean Partry was known here.

"Flies?" he'd said, encouragingly.

Partry had scowled. "Enough of flies. Who'd you sail with, Mr Wallis, on your traverse of the Pacific?"

"William Dampier," Daniel had said, and _that_ had provoked a grimace as fierce as the previous one. "Why, what's he to you?"

"Oh, no more than a gentleman with no conviction," Partry'd explained. "Turns aside from ready fortune."

Daniel had felt disloyal, nodding, but 'twas true. "He was a fine navigator, though: indeed, come to think of it, he weren't captain then. 'Twas old Swan: now, _he_ was a piece of work. But Dampier was an easy enough bloke, and he had our course exactly right, almost to the day. Sixty-eight days we sailed west, and half the men were for mutiny and dining on the officers."

"Sixty-eight days?" Partry had scoffed. "Hardly worth going out. What cargo were you carrying? Was the profit worth your while?"

Daniel'd shrugged again. "Don't remember much profit," he'd admitted. "Dampier was right pleased to be so accurate, when half the charts were wrong. And you, Mr Partry? Did you land richer than you'd set sail?"

It'd been an unkind question, for despite his words about finding a warm, sunny place in which to settle, out of the way of various ill-intentioned authorities, Sean Partry was very clearly _here_ , in rainy wintry London: though he was not knocked up in Newgate or the Fleet, so his lot could yet be worse than it was.

"Aye," Partry'd said ruefully, staring into his pint. "Though we spent most of it, _leaving_ Mexico again."

"Some places are right villainous on the purse, ain't they?"

"I've a _remedy_ for that, these days," Partry had said, and he'd grinned at Daniel: a good set of teeth, he had, though they were not his own. "Won't you dine with me, Mr Wallis? The fare here is surprisingly good. No, no: your company's payment enough."

The stew -- rather, the very thick and lumpy soup -- had been brought to them by a slender, foreign-looking chap who lack'd an eye. Daniel'd thought he might be Malay, and (inflated with ale and keen to show away his own skills) had addressed him in that tongue. Partry'd smiled again and rattled off some foreign cant -- Daniel, listening hard, could've sworn he'd heard the name _Minerva_ , but 'twas foolish to try picking out words from any such jabber -- and the man'd beamed at him and responded in kind.

"Dari hails from Manila," Partry had remarked, sucking up his soup.

"Lovely place," Daniel'd remarked. "Charming women. And the men are fine sailors, too: there's a gang of 'em on the _Minerva_ , from way back. The tales they tell!"

"What tales are those?" Partry'd enquired offhandedly, staring into his bowl as though suspicious of the soup's ingredients, though Daniel'd found it wholesome enough.

"Oh, the _Minerva_ plies the Atlantic these days, Boston to London and back again; 'tis enough to make any man yearn for the sun," Daniel had told him. "But back when she was first built -- I'll bet you've heard _those_ stories, about the gold on her hull, and the pirate-queen, and --" (here Daniel lowered his voice, so that Partry leaned creakily close) "-- _Jack Shaftoe_ , who they call _L'Emmerdeur_ , who was a King in Hindustan."

"I've heard of him," Partry had said, looking Daniel in the eye as he pushed the empty bowl away and settled back into his place. "So your _Minerva_ is the very ship commissioned by that infamous blackguard, and built of precious woods and metals on the fabled Malabar coast?"

"Aye," Daniel'd said, puffed now with adoptive pride. "And though Jack Shaftoe's gone -- I beg your pardon; I didn't mean to say the name so loud -- and none knows where he may be, they speak most highly of him still."

" _I_ never heard any good of him: surely he's no more than a common criminal!"

"Oh no," Daniel'd protested. "There's more to 'im than that, much more. He and his sons -- for though he was called Half-- ... though he had that epithet you know of, yet he'd sired two strapping lads, Jimmy and Danny ..."

Here Daniel's thoughts had been tumbled all about, as if a hurricano had somehow got into his skull and disordered everything. Or perhaps it'd been the ale. But there'd been a clamouring in his head: van Hoek, with his long flat Dutch words, sending him on his errand; Sean Partry welcoming him, and commending him on his name.

"Do pray continue, Mr Wallis," Partry'd bidden him. "Another ale, perhaps, to whet your whistle?"

Daniel had acquiesced, more for the distraction than for anything else: and by the time that the ale had arrived, he'd collected his thoughts sufficiently to spin a few of the most phantastickal tales he'd heard since he'd joined the _Minerva_ , leavening them with amiable remarks made by the various crew and officers of that ship. He hadn't included van Hoek's less _charitable_ similitudes, viz. Jack Shaftoe as pirate (van Hoek having an especial hatred for that sort, which'd forced Daniel Wallis to invent large tracts of his own history on application to join the ship's company); Jack Shaftoe as pox-crazed lunatick; Jack Shaftoe as a loose cannon on the _Minerva_ 's swabbed and polished decks.

"But you were speaking of Dari," he'd reminded Partry, once he'd recounted a sufficient canon of Shaftoe-fictions. "Pardon me for my digression."

Partry had shot him a look of sour amusement ( _that_ was probably attributable to the beer, too), but he'd picked up his tale where he'd left off.

"A good fellow, Dari. He sailed with us all 'round the world -- and round Cape Horn, mind you -- and was assured of passage home, but when it came to it, he chose to stay in England."

"'Tis a wonder he hasn't frozen to death," Daniel'd remarked.

"Aye," had said Partry, raising his voice to be heard over the musicians in the corner of the tavern, who were striking up a merry reel to drown out the noise of the storm outside. "A fellow sailor brought him word his wife was dead, and now he says there's nothing worth returning for."

"Pah! I've had two wives," Daniel'd said cheerfully. "Two lovely lasses, they were: Mary down in Oxenford, and Jeanne over in Dunkirk. Both of 'em dead, but I'll be damned if I pine for 'em, eh?"

"I gave my heart twice," Partry'd retorted, eyes half-lidded so that Daniel couldn't read his expression. "No good come of it either time, and I'm past doing it again."

"Women, eh?" Daniel'd sympathised, and he'd called for more ale.

Lying in bed now -- the rain is lessening, and there seems to be more light, of a silvery kind, outside, though little enough of it can force its way through the chinks between the shutters -- Daniel tries to remember not only Partry's words, but his voice. What he'd _said_ was, "Aye: they're nothing but trouble." But there'd been something odd in his tone; or maybe he'd just paused a moment too long before agreeing with Daniel.

And there'd been that girl in the far corner of the tavern, singing her lewd songs. Daniel'd shot her an inviting look or two, for her wicked smile had brought all manner of misbehaviours to mind; but Partry'd scowled, and cupped his ear to hear Daniel better. "Too many games with black powder and the like, when I was a lad," he'd explained. "Can't hear a bloody word."

"Safer not to listen to any of 'em," Daniel'd suggested, chuckling at his own wit. "Women, I mean."

"That's true enough," Partry had said, and there'd surely been some bitterness in his tone. "Men are easier company, by far."

Their eyes had met, then, and (Daniel's quite sure that he didn't imagine it) there had been some _communication_ , unspoken but surely clear, between the two of them.

"More ale, Mr ... Mr Partry?" Daniel'd offered.

"I'd best make room for it," Partry had excused himself, getting to his feet slowly and (from the popping and creaking of his joints, and the melodramatick sighs) painfully, and headed purposefully for the back door of the inn. That door, Daniel had decided, must open directly above the Thames -- perhaps onto some gallery or porch, from where a man might make his own small contribution to the river, or hail a waterman. Daniel had made himself a wager, that Partry would not come back; that he'd read Daniel Wallis easy as a book, and knew what he was thinking, and refused to court discovery.

Yet Partry _had_ come back, his hair and coat damp with rain; had said, "'Tis a second Deluge out there, Mr Wallis: where are your lodgings?"

He must have known that Daniel had none; he was not smiling, not quite, but there was a spark of wickedness in his green eyes that made Daniel determined to give as good as he got.

"I've none," he'd said, looking Partry straight in the eye. "But I have a flask of good rum, if that'll buy me a bed for the night."

Daniel stretches out in said bed -- it's warm, and dry, and a thousand times more comfortable than his hammock on the _Minerva_ , though perhaps it's that unaccustomed comfort that's keeping him from his sleep -- and smirks into the darkness at the memory of Sean Partry's smile.

"Mr Wallis," he'd said, "you're a buccaneer, and doubtless a right rake too: no doubt you'll _give_ your rum only to _take_ liberties."

"None at all," Daniel had protested, though in truth his blood was surging with challenge, or interest, or perhaps mere reminiscence. "I shall be a very proper guest, where'er I lie tonight."

"That lass looks fair company," Partry had murmured, leaning close so that his breath (warm and yeasty) gusted against Daniel's cheek.

Daniel had snorted, though the girl was singing a shanty laden with doubled and tripled meanings, and her flushed face and saucy wink showed she understood every one of 'em. "Women," he'd said again, waving a dismissive hand and knocking over his own empty cup; "always want more than you've got to give, eh?"

 _That_ won him a narrow-eyed glare from Partry, who was finishing off his own drink; but all he'd said -- aside from the inevitable oaths and mutterings as he'd creaked his way to his feet again -- was "Come on, then".

Daniel had blinked up at him, confused.

"I'll take your rum, Mr Wallis," Partry'd said, holding out a hand (though Daniel had not dared to accept it, for fear it might break off or otherwise malfunction). "There's room for you upstairs, and no need to go out in the rain. Terrible bad for you, is London rain."

There is indeed room for Daniel in this bed, though the portion of it that he's occupying -- not above half -- seems remarkably _crowded_. It's a small chamber, up in the triangular roof-space of the inn, and Daniel's head still aches a little from his earlier encounter with the low beams.

There's nothing in this room to make it anything but anonymous. There's this bed, warm and clean (Daniel isn't scratching himself yet) and redolent of hay more than of the man sleeping beside him. There's a sea-chest, much battered and salt-streaked and marked: it doesn't belong to Sean Partry, or to any member of his family, if the initials burnt into it above the lock are to be believed. There's a fearsome array of weaponry -- pistols, knives and the like -- to which Partry added the fine curving sword that'd leant against the side of the tavern bench. Daniel's cutlass, an unlovely but effective weapon, is in good company. The back of the door (which has a remarkably heavy latch -- remarkable, at least, for the attic of a waterside inn) is decorated with several rusty nails: Partry's coat hangs on one of these, Daniel's on another. Daniel can see their looming shapes in the dim moonlight that's filtering through the gaps around the window-shutters. The storm has passed.

When they'd achieved the top of the third ladder, the rain had been so loud that Daniel could scarce hear Partry's blasphemies and complaints.

"This climate doesn't seem to agree with you," he'd observed.

"This climate doesn't agree with _anyone_ ," Partry'd grumbled. "Fit for frogs and ducks, it is, and not for any man. But I've business here, and cannot quit the place until it's done."

"I'm sorry to hear it," Daniel'd said: and then, as if possessed by some Imp of Unreason, "we sail for the Caribbean on Saturday."

"Have a care, Mr Wallis," Partry'd warned him with a quick, sharp glance, striking tinder and reaching up to light the lanthorn that hung from a nail above the bed. "Maybe I'll take your rum and kick you back downstairs."

"I beg your pardon," Daniel Wallis had said, reaching inside his weskit for the flask. "Pray have some _distill'd_ sunshine, and my 'pologies."

They'd sat on the bed, side by side, passing the rum between them 'til it was all gone: and, Daniel thinks now, neither he nor Partry'd spoken three words together in that time. It had not been a difficult silence, though. Several times Daniel'd opened his mouth to say, I know you. I know who you are. But something had stopped him each time.

The lanthorn had burned low, and begun to pop as loudly as Partry's various joints; and, the rum finished, the two of them had stripped to their drawers (Daniel trying not to flick sidelong, inquisitive glances at his companion's scars, not to mention any other Distinguishing Features) and interr'd themselves in bed just as the light guttered and died.

They had rolled together in the darkness as though in some Accord, as if it had been rehearsed or agreed or argued out: as though it were inevitable. 'Twas a cold night, and the rain battering on the roof above the bed made it seem colder. And besides -- Daniel smiles again at the thought -- there'd been that wicked Impulse, exhorting him (in William Dampier's voice, for some perverse reason) to prove his theory, to test and to observe.

After all, he'd win either way. If he were wrong, he'd get some fun, of a kind he was well enough accustomed to: he was sure it wouldn't be taken amiss. And if he were right ... well, he'd be proven right: and Daniel Wallis had acquired a taste, during all his travels and adventures, for secrets and cleverness and puzzles.

And besides, it'd been _years_ \-- his ardours having settled, for the main, into the doldrums of old age -- since he'd felt such a touch: such hands, ungloved now, rough and callused and strong upon his skin. Hands that knew what they were doing. Daniel had been determined to give as good as he got, and he'd pressed up against Sean Partry's warm body, knee to knee, thigh to muscled thigh, chest to chest, not kissing (some blokes wouldn't) but content with that, enjoying the feel of skin under his hands and hands on his skin, neither of 'em overly gentle but firm and arousing. Partry's hot breath gusting against the skin of Daniel's neck, loud enough to drown out the rain and hot enough to make him shiver: Partry's hair, untied, sliding coarser than a woman's over his shoulder, tickling the scars there: Partry's fingers curving around his skull, not flinching from his half-an-ear.

Which thought had redoubled Daniel's interest, and he'd slid his own hand lower over Partry's belly, which was still hard and ridged with muscle, though he was agèd. And Christ, the strength in his hand as he'd caught hold of Daniel's wrist!

"Oh, come on," Daniel'd protested. "'Tis just a bit of fun. You know how it goes, surely. You've sailed with --"

"I don't give up my secrets so lightly," Partry had growled, his mouth right next to Daniel's mangled ear. Daniel shivers again at the memory of the way that'd felt.

"Secrets?" he'd said. "What secrets can there be between two men, eh?"

And, oooh, cold and sharp and delicate, there'd been the prickle of a dagger-point at the hollow of his throat.

Daniel had swallowed, hard, and felt the steel nick his skin. Partry had said nothing, and his body was still pressed against Daniel's in nearly every area that mattered. Daniel's yard, very definitely enthusiastic about the whole enterprise, was pushing -- restrained, uncomfortably, by his drawers -- against the curve of Partry's hip, and had been for a while. _That_ clearly wasn't the cause of Partry's complaint, or he'd have moved away; his free hand, the hand without the dagger in it, wouldn't still be resting, warm and broad and friendly, on Daniel's waist.

In that moment Daniel had known two things: that he was _right_ , and that he'd wanted to be _wrong_. Being right was all very well, but in this instance it meant that he wasn't going to get what his body was now quite clear about wanting; which was a damned shame, and left Daniel feeling oddly reckless.

"I ain't no threat to you, Mr Partry," he'd said, and could not resist adding, "or whatever your name is."

The dagger pushed a little harder.

"Of course you're not, Mr Wallis," Partry'd said, and Daniel had heard the amusement in his voice. "But what are you, then?"

"Curious," Daniel had said. And then, somehow compelled to honesty, "Horny."

Partry had sighed, a long shaky sigh, and the dagger had left Daniel's throat. "Go on, then."

And as Daniel's hand had venturesomely made its way south, somewhat constrained by the waist-band of the other's linen drawers, he'd added, "but 'tis no use, as you will find."

Daniel had ... found. The smooth slide of scar tissue had made him grimace in the dark, but he hadn't pulled back: he had wrapped his hand around what was left, and felt Partry's pulse and the futile swell of his blood, and felt, too, something he had not expected: not pity (though sympathy aplenty, and a flinching sense of fellow-feeling that'd made his own prick twitch) but a cheerful determination.

"I'll lay I can make you spend," he'd murmured in the dark.

Partry'd laughed out loud, and Daniel could feel the tremor of his amusement everywhere they touched. "You'd lose your money, Daniel Wallis: for I've met but one woman, in all the years since this befell me, who could do so, and _she_ , mind you, had learned it all from Books of India, or so she told me time and again."

His yard, or what was left of it, had been pushing into Daniel's palm.

"I ain't read any Books of India," Daniel'd informed him, "but I've lain with many a clever lass in those parts -- I'd've brought one back for you, if I'd known -- and I'll lay I've picked up a thing or two that'd astonish your Houndsditch doxies."

"Well," Partry had said amiably, his breathing a little more rapid than before, "you're welcome to prove me wrong." And his hand, oh Christ that hand, had closed familiarly around Daniel's intact yard, his thumb pressing just so, just there beneath the head ...

Daniel had been so distracted by that touch that it'd taken him a moment to remember what he knew: what he'd learnt, that time in Batavia when he'd had the clap and the girl wouldn't let him in her; and that other time in Achin when he'd been curious about the paintings on the wall, depicting blue-skinned beauties performing improbable, contortionist acts 'pon one another. None of it, thinking back, had been as spectacularly, simply _effective_ as Sean Partry's hand on him: but never mind that.

Daniel, pushing into that grip that was just on the edge between enough and too much, had suckled on his own fingers; somehow, as he sent his other hand down between Partry's strong clenched thighs, his mouth had found itself in proximity to another, and without any fuss they had suddenly been kissing. (Christ, but that set of teeth'd felt odd, and they'd tasted all musty, of beer and soup and use. Daniel had run his tongue over the smooth wooden curve where they rested against Sean Partry's tender gums, and Partry'd growled wordlessly at him: it had felt oddly intimate, something he'd never done before with lass or lad.)

Partry had tensed against him when his slick, wet fingers touched the other's balls, and Daniel had kissed him (and been kissed back) harder, moaning enthusiastically into Sean Partry's mouth and eliciting the most flattering sounds from his companion.

And then he'd pushed one finger _in_ , slow and patient and gentle, giving Partry time to adjust, to stiffen against him and then -- oh, Sean Partry had done this before, all right, and more than once -- relax. Daniel had phant'sied he could feel the tension, the tautness, draining out of Partry's whole body: not just his clenched arse, but his arms, his legs, his shoulders ...

They'd kissed, and kissed, and Daniel had taken it so slow, though Partry's hand on his yard was driving him rapidly to distraction (not to mention, to _messier_ states) and the feel of Partry's body opening up for him was at once disgusting (though less and less so, as it went on) and peculiarly arousing, though nothing, nothing at all, like taking a girl, even for the first time.

And then -- he remembered how this had felt, when it had been performed (nay, _demonstrated_ ) upon him -- he located that secret place, that knot of nerves, hidden away inside.

It hadn't taken long at all, after that: and Daniel had taken Partry's gasps and imprecations, urgent against his open mouth, as some sort of permission, and had come like ... well, like a man surpris'd by some sudden catastrophe, biting hard on the scarred skin of Partry's shoulder as his climax laid him out.

Christ, it'd felt good.

Now, lying in Sean Partry's bed (though doubtless _not_ his bed on any regular basis, else he'd never have brought a stranger here, no matter how easily they fell a-talking), watching the light come up outside, Daniel Wallis knows how it will be. It's been a tiring day, and he's exhausted. He'll sleep at last, some time before the true dawn, curling against his bedmate for warmth and comfort. When the sun comes up, Sean Partry will extricate himself, gently and carefully, from Daniel's sleeping embrace: he'll don his breeches and shirt and his fine coat, and tie back his hair, and belt on his sword. Perhaps he'll look back at the bed, and Daniel lying there asleep. Perhaps he'll simply depart, leaving the guns and the sea-chest (with its ornate pokerwork framing the letters 'J.S.' in a wreath of bosomy mermaids) and the dirty sheets.

"Is Mr Partry about?" Daniel might ask in the morning, going downstairs to find some breakfast: but the landlord will surely look at him as though he's simple, and say, "There's no one by that name round 'ere."

And Daniel Wallis will have to be satisfied with that.

-end-

\-----------------  
Absolute fiction, of course, as Wallis did not sail with Dampier on the latter's Pacific crossing.  



End file.
